Eowyn and The Knights
by Cormallen
Summary: To Eowyn's horror, she wakes to find herself in one of Marius's dungeons. Please R&R and give constructive feedback. LoTR Xover. ON HIATUS
1. A Cage

Chapter One: A Cage

A shaft of light shone down on Éowyn face. She stirred. Her senses returning; each inch of her body felt as if it had been beaten repeatedly. A dull pain was beginning to prickle on the top of her right eye and her arms felt oddly heavy.

_Something wasn't right … _she thought dimly, whilst breathing in the scent of some pungent aroma ... _something wasn't right …_

Slowly, she opened her eyes.

What she saw nearly made her cry out; she was locked in possibly one of the gloomiest, smallest, dilapidated cells in Middle Earth. Even Edoras would never accommodate such despicable living conditions! Slime oozed from the walls, like pus seeping from an infected wound, and the air smelt heavily of decay. Attempting to ignore this unpleasant sensation, Éowyn noticed her arms were shackled to the wall behind her. A dull pain throbbed above across her forehead which felt taut with dried blood.

She had obviously been struck with a blow to the head.

Only one person would be responsible for this travesty: _Grima._

He must have poisoned her drink, and kidnapped her after the burial of her cousin. There was no other explanation. Oh, if he was caught, Edoras would have the long-awaited pleasure of his public execution!

Maybe, the worm had brought her to this place himself. Perhaps she was in his dark quarters, hidden in a secret chamber in which not a soul knew about and so now he, could do whatever willed. But she couldn't be? He was banished …

As her fury ebbed away, her grey eyes adjusted to the gloom and she observed her surroundings in closer detail. The only light source emanated from dying torch brackets outside her cell.

Éowyn sniffed and sank back against the cold wall.

She tried, fruitlessly, to shake off the shackles that bound her, but they were fastened tight.

Another dull pain began to throb in Éowyn's head, which she knew had nothing to do with her injuries. Through the immense discomfort she was in, another surge of white-hot anger pulsated through her. Her shackled hands yearned to grasp the handle of a sword. Some cold blade she could swing and drive through his accursed flesh. To destroy him … just as he had done to her. To her Uncle. To Rohan.

_The snake in the grass …_

As her body seethed with rage, she remembered her last moments before she ended up here.

He came to Rohan.

The dark stranger appearing from the distant plains as she stood atop the Golden Hall. As the wind whipped her golden hair, she watched him enter Edoras accompanied with three others: an elf, a dwarf and Mithrandir, the wizard who saved her Uncle from Saruman's evil clutches. But he … he had saved _her._

Not one to be coyed by men, Éowyn could still her heart racing as as she observed him; a handsome, regal face with fathomless eyes … and he had treated her with a tenderness she had known little of.

_Aragorn … Last of the Dunedain, destined to be a King._

A lump began to form in Éowyn's throat.

Being trapped in a cage was her worst fear, as Grima knew all to well. He created and installed the very barriers of her life. For years, she was confined to a prison of fear and grief she tended to an ailing King. Hope had long forsaken the halls of Meduseld!

Her own lease; learning how to wield a blade.

In some dull, shut-out memory, Éowyn remembered the furious rides across the plains atop Windfola, her faithful steed at the break of dawn. She remembered how strength had not left her and was up till the late of night, cantering under the stars.

Why did it seem her whole life was flashing before her eyes?

For the first time in years, she was afraid.

A chill wind swept through the cell and she glanced down; she was wearing what appeared to be the torn rags of what was once an elaborate, tailored dress. The shining white, was now a faded grey, congealed with dirt.

A low moan dragged Éowyn from her dark thoughts. Her eyes swept to a dark corner, and she dissected a crouched figure shackled to the wall. A shock of charcoal hair tumbled to the floor, framing a thin, waxen face.

Yet it was not the starved appearance of this woman, that unnerved Éowyn, it was the deathly silence surrounding her like a shroud … as if she was nothing more than a shadow …

Éowyn made to speak but the woman had already lifted her head, acknowledging her presence.

"You live." Her voice was hoarse.

"Yes," replied Éowyn and she too, was shocked at how guttural her voice sounded. It rang eerily around the minute cell. "I – I where am I?"

It was a childish question but she needed to know.

The woman gazed at her with her sunken eyes.

"A darl place," croaked the woman. "He brought you in yesterday."

"Who? Grima?" Éowyn twisted her head around quickly, as if half-expecting the wretched man to sprout from the shadows but the woman shook her head, looking confused.

"Marius," she said. "With the monks. But why they brought in some like you, I know not … you are no Briton."

"No," breathed Éowyn, staring at the woman who stared back with something that looked like pity in her eyes. "I am not a Briton."

"Such wondrous hair," murmured the woman lethargically, sinking her head against the wall. "Like a river of gold."

"Who is this Marius?" Eowyn probed her. "And what are _monks? _"

The woman smirked. "A fool. He owns a Roman estate, and the monks are his servants. They practise the religion of their so-called God."

Éowyn stared at her in disbelief. Romans … monks … gods … _where on earth was she?_

"And … and you have not heard of a man called Grima?"

"No … sorry."

Panic began to rise in Éowyn's chest. "So … so why are you in here?"

The woman smirked again. "Because … I refuse to do a madman's bidding. Men lose their way."

Éowyn knew this for a fact. She noticed the woman didn't move her hands, despite the frequent shuffling of her feet. The fingers poked out at odd angles from the sockets.

"What happened to your hands?"

A shadow seemed to flicker across the woman's eyes.

"They were dislocated by one of the monks," she said in a low voice. "You haven't got you yet … but they will … " her voice tailed off.

Éowyn bowed her head.

"People die in here, don't they?"

The woman nodded gravely.

"Martyrs …?"

"No," murmured the woman. "People who refuse to be slaves. People who want their country back."

Éowyn said nothing. So she was in a dungeon where people were tortured because they were sinners in their own land. The thought made her feel slightly sick.

"Do you fear Death?" asked the woman sharply.

The question caught Éowyn off-guard. She tilted her up. "No."

"Then what is it your fear?"

Éowyn looked hard at the woman for a few seconds before answering.

"A cage," she said quietly in the still silence of the cell. "To stay behind bars until use and old age accept them. And all chance of valour has gone beyond recall or desire, and yet …" She broke off as a wave of anguish swept through her. "I did not think that would be my fate."

She mastered furiously to keep her face emotionless but the woman's gaze was close and piercing.

Little did her companion know, that she had said these very words to the one person who had given her hope. The one person whom she might not see again. Feeling thoroughly ashamed for showing weakness, she glanced over at the woman and was embarrassed to see a tear, sliding down her cheek.

"It will not be your fate," she said.

"No," said Éowyn stubbornly. "It will not."

"What is your name?" asked the woman.

"Éowyn, yours?"

"Guinevere …"

Guinevere … it was a graceful name and Éowyn couldn't help but wonder …

"Well, Guinevere, I am glad to have met you."

"Me too …"

"I do not know much," said Éowyn, resting her hung arms. "But we must keep our wits."

Guinevere nodded her thin face.

"Strength of mind," she mused. "Many men cannot see beyond the muscle. Whilst we linger here, Éowyn my friend, we shall not sink into despair nor fade away like our captors intend."

Éowyn smiled slightly, even though it ached her face. She was a Shield Maiden, by the words of that man, a Daughter of Kings and she would not wilt easily to any pestiferous, wicked ways of any torturer or tyrant.

Until …

A door creaked from up ahead and the sound of footsteps rang down the corridor. Éowyn glanced at Guinevere and saw that her face was suddenly tense, alarmed.

"They are here," she said in a hushed voice. "God be with you."


	2. Rescued

Thanks to all my reviewers :). I guess I'lle keep this up with a few more chapters, and see how we go.

I value honesty, so please put forth any constructive criticism. I can't improve when people just say my story is "good," or urging me to "update soon."

Slan!

Rescued

"_Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum …"_

A dull chant reverberated down the corridor. Éowyn stared through the bars and saw shadowy figures dancing sinuously on the brick walls from the torchlight.

She turned her head very slowly to look at Guinevere. Her face (and even though it was very difficult to see), had paled. She simply gazed back at Éowyn with a fierce look that said she was helpless, and that if she could, she would fend off the men that were drawing near.

"Wits Éowyn," she breathed. "Keep them. They will try to destroy you."

"… _Et in terra. Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis …"_

"I do not know what they are saying," Éowyn whispered, swallowing hard. "What tongue is this?"

Guinevere only shook her head.

"It is what the Romans speak," she said. Éowyn had no time to ask who or what a "Roman" was because the footsteps were only metres away. These men had obviously come for her.

" … _Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo. Amen …"_

Two stooped men came into sight. One stepped near the bars of the cell, the candlelight illuminating his blunt features. He observed Éowyn coldly with a set of pale eyes. She simply stared back, taking in his appearance. He, like his rather squat other, were clad in brown scruffy robes with a cross-like necklace around his neck.

"Your name?" he said in a voice as oily as his hair. Éowyn stiffened and sat upright against the wall.

"Éowyn," she said icily, her grey eyes lingering on the key in his gnarled hand. The monk gave a small grin and clicked the lock open and swooped inside, followed by his other.

"Éowyn," repeated the greasy man, in a sad tone. "You are here because you have defied against the Lord. I, a loving man of God, will resurrect you from your sins and help you on your journey to righteousness. You will die as an example to those who seek to go against His will."

"I do not know of which God you speak," she spat, sitting up even straighter though she felt the blood drain from her face as he swept closer.

"Well you wouldn't," said the man softly. "You are a heathen. A pagan."

"I am not," said Éowyn in a voice of cold fury. "You think again before you insult me."

The monk exchanged amused looks with his friend. He bent down in front of her and put one stubby finger on her chin, lifting her head up. Éowyn shuddered violently at his touch; his skin felt cold and pockmarked.

"You are a sinner, Éowyn," he said slowly. "Crime does not pay."

Éowyn stared hard down at him, frosty grey eyes meeting staring, pale blue. His smell, his presence, his look; everything about him was utterly repulsive.

"And now we are going to help you. The less you struggle, the more clearer your path to God will be."

He held out his free hand and his short friend passed him a spiky, chain like device. It looked like some sort of whip …

Eyeing this formidable weapon, something inside Éowyn snapped. With a surge of madness, she flipped her body upward, kicking out hard at the monk that was bent over her. One of her feet collided forcefully into his stomach and he stumbled to the floor, dragging his friend down with him.

"GET AWAY!" she shrieked. It rang out loud in the cell, as if a hundred other Éowyn's were screaming the same line. Panting heavily and sagging against the shackles that bound her, she stared at Guinevere who was watching her with an odd, suppressed expression. She opened her mouth to speak but the monks were standing up …

Spluttering, and clutching their stomachs, the monks staggered to their feet. For a moment they simply looked at Éowyn but the greasy one lost his temper. He strode forth and slapped her hard against the cheek. Éowyn felt her skull collide hard with the stone wall behind her and the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.

As if from a distant land, she heard Guinevere's voice yelling in protest. _"Leave her! LEAVE HER!"_ But it was too late. There was nothing she could do. She would have to watch …

She was suddenly aware, a pair of firm hands were clutching her jaw, forcing her to turn round and stare directly ahead of her. It was the greasy monk. Without warning, he opened his mouth and licked the side of her cheek. Ripples of revulsion swept through Éowyn like poison but she refused to kick and squeal, like some defenceless animal.

Then, she felt her wrist being tightly clenched from up above. Cold metal brushed her skin and before she could cry out, a sickening crack vaulted the stillness of the cell. Pain, like she had never felt before, shot through her whole arm and then her body. Soaring through each limb; her wrist had been dislocated.

"AAAAAARGH!" she cried out aloud in a muffled yell, writhing about in the monk's vice-like grip. The pain was unbearable, and it was intensified even more because she was being suppressed.

"Shhhh," said the greasy monk softly, holding her jaw. "Calm down now, calm thee down. Sed libera nos a malo … Amen." Éowyn's chest was heaving with deep breaths, her long golden hair hanging loosely in front of her eyes. Tears, not of fright but of pain and anger were leaking down her dirty face, making small channels.

"Would you like us to stop?" he whispered into her ear. "All you have to do is ask for the Lord's mercy and _we _shall be merciful …"

Éowyn continued to breathe heavily, suppressing the prickling, agonising pain in her arm. She would not beg. She would not crawl at the hems of these men's bidding. Not over her Uncle's life. Her own mother may have died of grief but she would not be weakened. Not by a tyrant.

"I do not believe in your God," she said in a calm but shaking voice.

She felt another strike against her cheek, tasting more blood. But her body was so numb; she suffered only a sharp tingle.

"Insolence," snarled the monk, standing up and forcibly pushing her head down. "We shall return, and we hope that your mind has thought clearer about the task God has set for you. Or we shall drive the demons within you out by more force."

Éowyn said nothing and vaguely recalled the noise of their feet leaving the dungeon. There was the click of a lock and the murmurs of their voices, faded away …

- - - - -

Éowyn lay weakened within her bonds for several more days. How long time had passed, she cared not but each minute dragged on for what seemed an age. Now Éowyn could see why Guinevere had sat in such stony silence. The pain, her own thoughts, created a small prison, a kind of limbo, in her own mind. Just as inescapable as the one she was physically in.

"We must keep our wits," said Guinevere weakly, two days after a nasty ordeal she had had with a machine that snapped more of her fingers. Éowyn had cried out, just Guinevere had done when they dislocated her wrist, and this had earned her a sharp smack around the jaw.

"They leave us here …" she coughed sharply, "… to rot in our own hurt and twisted thoughts. To drive us mad …"

"They … will be the ones damned," said Éowyn in a low, stony voice. "Not us …"

Without the supply of water or food, Éowyn's throat had become sore and dry. Swallowing had become painful and vast amounts of weight were beginning to drop off her already slim frame. Soon, (or she may already) she would appear just as skeletal-looking as Guinevere.

The thought of appearing corpse-like terrified her and it plagued her dreams, whenever she found the strength to sleep.

_To sleep … _

Maybe a struggling death would be a justified end. She would have her honour. Then an endless sleep would relieve her of this unforeseen nightmare …

_Clump, clump, clump … shouts. _

The monks were coming back.

_Chink, chink … _There was the sound of the machines and chains, ready to be used.

_Aaaaaaagh! _A deathly cry … one poor soul was being tortured. Perhaps killed.

_Clump, clump, clump … _

The footsteps were drawing near. They were hurried, frantic. They must be desperate, thought Éowyn, her head lolling on her chest, they can't get enough. She glanced up and saw Guinevere gazing unfocusedly at the bars, her eyes red and skin deathly pale.

The shadows of men danced along the walls but the "clumping" and "chinking" noises was getting closer. And even through her weakened state, Éowyn recognised it instantly to be of armour. Not some unholy weapon that was about to used.

Her heart began to race. She didn't dare believe it, but was there some hope at last?

Two men appeared through the gloom but they were not the hunched forms of the monks. They were tall upright men, clad in armour which reflected in the torchlight one of the men held.

He stood back, as his other swung a large sword against the bars. It fell with an ear-splitting crash to the floor.

"Get them both out," ordered the man with the sword. He sheathed it and walked over and undid the shackles binding Guinevere. He then picked her up gently and walked out of the cell. The man with the torch discarded it and bent down to undo the shackles on Éowyn's arms. She winced as her wrist was prised free from its metal case.

"Sorry," he murmured, tenderly lifting her to her feet. Éowyn said nothing but allowed herself to picked up and swept from the cell, clutching the man's shoulder in a child-like way. She kept her eyes open all the way, as she was brought out of the dungeons. She saw the bodies of old men, women, even children, chained to the walls and in cells, rotting and wasting away.

The smell was incredible, and it was a huge relief when they passed through a door and out into the open air. Her lungs felt like they had shrivelled up.

As she was carried, she looked behind her and saw a tall man carrying the form of a small, nervous boy. The giant man saw her looking at him and Éowyn hastily averted her eyes away. She wished she could thank that man for saving that boy, because, if at least one child escaped the peril and cruelty, then the monk's ways had been in vain.

Around her, Éowyn heard the dull sound of shouts. Some of shock, some of anger.

"Water, get me some water …"

There was the sound of hurried footsteps, and Éowyn felt herself being slowly lowered to the ground, the sting of cold air searing her face. The man holding her, placed a flask to her lips.

"Drink," he said, "this will help."

Éowyn opened her mouth ajar but didn't have the strength to sip properly. Instead, she allowed the blessed liquid to slide down her parched throat, easing her of the tingling sore pain that scorched there. Suddenly, her body lurched forwards and a flurry of coughs built up in her chest, but the man held her steady.

"No … more," she gasped in her guttural voice, clenching onto the man's shoulders.

"They are Woads," said a voice above her.

The man holding Éowyn glanced down at her. There was something that looked like confusion in his dark eyes, as he scanned over her appearance.

"You're safe," he said. "You're safe now."

Éowyn said nothing but she soon realised that there was a small crowd had gathered, consisting of peasants and men in more claddings of armour. And behind their towering heads, she could make out the form of a large, elaborate white building.

"Stop! What are you doing?" yelled a voice. It was sharp and angry. A man draped in white robes darted forth but was stopped by a "shhhhhing" of metal. Swords were drawn and were pointed at him. The man who had rescued Guinevere, drew closer to the white-robed man, his red cloak swirling in the wind.

"What is this madness?" he demanded fiercely.

The man in the white robes seemed to quell somewhat from the man's livid stare.

"They are all pagans here!" he said, gaining a fraction of defiance. "They refuse to do the task God has set for them. They must die as an example!"

"YOU MEAN THEY REFUSE TO BE YOUR SERFS!" roared the man, brandishing his sword closer. The man in white did not wince but he eyed the point somewhat warily.

"You are Roman, Arthur," he said, his tone close to disgust. "You understand, and you are a Christian," his eyes shot to a woman tending to Guinevere. "You, you helped them!" he strode over and smacked her hard over the head. But as she fell, the man in white was pushed forcibly to the ground, the sword now directly at his throat.

"My lord!" yelled some of the white man's guards but he ordered them to stay where they were. He glared up at Arthur.

"When we get to the wall, you will be punished for this heresy," he hissed.

Éowyn knew he had gone too far. The man with the sword, who she assumed was called Arthur, bent even lower and said in a voice, full of contempt: "Perhaps I should kill you now and seal my fate."

There was a nervous silence, where Éowyn recalled only the whistling of the wind and the sting of snow upon her cheeks. Suddenly, a soft, oily voice spoke.

"It is God's wish that these sinners be sacrificed."

It was the greasy-haired monk. He stood, gazing wistfully Arthur with his popping, pale eyes. Without removing his sword from the white-robed man's neck, he slowly turned round to face him. But Éowyn did not hear Arthur's reply; the man holding her was slowly urging for her to stand.

"Let's get you away from those dogs," he said in a quiet voice of revulsion. With her working hand, Éowyn feebly swept strands of hair from her face and saw Guinevere being helped to her feet by the woman who had been struck. "They are all mad. If that is the work of their God, then … I remain sinfully faithless in no deity."

Again, Éowyn did not reply. She kept on watching the scene occurring outside the dungeons. The little boy was being softly carried in the arms of the giant man. His small face was tear-streaked and he was pointing at his arm, talking to the man, who nodded. And Éowyn then understood that the boy's arm was broken. How those people could break a small child, she thought faintly, what devilry was this?

_Let__ them not break your mind, boy. Let them not. Stronger men have fallen in battle but lost their minds with foolishness. _

Vaguely, Éowyn felt a spread of warmth tour through her body. A thick blanket was being swathed around her and saw that she was being steered into a small wickerwork carriage. However, its mean exterior was in great contrast to what she perceived inside. Three comfortable-looking beds, built up with hay and more blankets were set about in a nest-like fashion; she was led to one on the left hand side.

Sleep took her before her head touched the pillows.


	3. Silent Fears

Thanks to all my reviewers. I say ask nothing more, but to be honest and critical in your reviews.

Slan!

P.S Don't assume things right away in this chapter ... that's all I'lle say ;)

Silent Fears

"_Oh he, he must have died ss-sometime in the night. What a tragedy for the king to lose his only son and heir. I understand... his passing is hard to accept, especially now that your brother has deserted you …" _

_Long, sloping footsteps echoed off the walls of the King's son bedroom. A hunched figure emerged into view in the doorway, walking with the gait of a crouching, cowering beast. _

_Black, greasy hair curtained his waxen face as his cold, blue eyes stared at the back of a woman, weeping over a body spread out on an elaborate bed. Her long, golden hair ran down her back, though it glowed ashen in the dim torchlight. _

_She lifted herself up as she heard his voice. Her body, still as marble. She could hear his breathing, his presence only metres away … _

"_Leave me alone, you snake!" she declared, leaping up violently from the bedside. She turned around and the hunched man stared at her, unabashed. A ghost of a smirk began to pull at his thin, pale lips and he swooped close in a vulture-like fashion. _

"_Oh, but you are alone," he whispered, gazing intently into her white face as he began to circle her. "Who knows what you've spoken to the darkness, in the bitter watches of the night, when all your life seems to shrink. The walls of your bower closing in about you. A hushed, tremmelsome, wild thing."_

_He stopped before her and placed a hand to her cheek, inwardly marvelling at how unnaturally cool it felt to the touch. _

"_So fair, so cold, like a morning of pale spring still clinging to winter's chill."_

_The woman closed her eyes, her face beginning to quiver. A small silence followed the man's words and the woman slowly opened her eyes. She stared unblinkingly at him for moment, before -_

"_Your words are poison!" _

_Her quivering, hateful voice rang about the room and she swept from the man's side._

_Poison … _

_So alone … _

"No … not alone."

The words issued from Éowyn's mouth in incoherent mumbles. Her head lolled sleepily from side to side on her shoulders. His face … for a moment Éowyn thought she was back in her bed in Meduseld. The fire would be crackling in its grate, and the hushed whispers of maids would pass her door.

For one wild moment, she thought her hand had clutched a handful of raven hair. In her mind's eye, the person turned around and faced her, smiling warmly, the dim firelight carving out his majestic looks.

"_Éowyn … you are a lady beautiful, I deem, beyond even the words of the Elven-tongue to tell. " _

"_My Lord …"_

The image vanished. And dark, hazy realisation swam through her. There was no mistaking the trundle of the carriage nor the icy bite of cold on her face. She was buried beneath layers of thick blanketing and hay, weak and very close to illness. There was no mistaking the prickling pain in her left wrist; it was still dislocated.

"My lord … my Lord … Aragor –."

"– I think she's trying to speak."

Éowyn registered a voice through her dim mind. Her eyelids flickered and opened and she came face to face with a pair of wide hazel eyes, staring curiously down at her. She almost bolted from the bed in fright.

"Oh!" they exclaimed backing away, realising they had startled Éowyn.

"Lucan, away from here," scolded a female voice. "You should be resting."

"My arm is fine," whinged the small boy called Lucan. "Dagonet says –."

"– Dagonet said for you to rest, now go."

Lucan stalked over to his bed and settled down, peering owlishly over the covers. With a stab of realisation, Éowyn remembered that he had been the boy who had been rescued from the dungeons.

She made to ask how he was but a tall woman swept down and placed a damp cloth to her head. She was a regal-looking woman, with a curtain of black hair that was tied beneath a roan toga. Her grey eyes were bloodshot, with light bags beginning to form.

"You still burn, child," she said seriously. "But you are much better."

Finally, Éowyn found her voice. With some difficulty, she said; "Have I slept long?"

The woman nodded, moistening her lips.

"Alas, my child, yes. For two days. Your wrist is still out of place but pushing back joints is not in my area of healing. I would ask one of the knights do that for you, for they are more accustomed to physical injuries."

Éowyn nodded vaguely, but stopped as it hurt her head.

"What is your name?" she said faintly, sitting up slightly.

"Fulcinia," said the woman, smiling. "And what is yours?"

"Éowyn," said Éowyn cagily, gazing at the blankets which swathed her. The main warmth was being stemmed from a large brown cloak which was pulled right up to her chin.

"How does Guinevere fare?"

The woman named Fulcinia gestured sadly at the bed beside Éowyn's. A pale, sleeping head was visible beneath the layering of blankets.

"Are you her friend?" asked Fulcinia.

Éowyn considered this for a moment, and then nodded.

"She was there for me in those dark hours," she said. "Where are we headed in this carriage?"

"To Hadrian's Wall," said Fulcinia. "There you will be safe from any harm."

Éowyn found that she didn't have the strength to ask what Hadrian's Wall was nor explain about her strange situation. Even though, she did not belong in these lands, she was under care. Questions would come later; it would be foolish to seek interrogation in the state she was in. Half of her dreaded this but the other half wished to seek a person who would have any knowledge on fantastical happenings.

A person both wise and strange. A person very much like Mithrandir.

- - - -

Éowyn felt as if a mini battle was pounding at her brain. Whenever she tried to ponder her thoughts, a dull pain would throb in her temple and she would be transported back to the malevolent times of Grima and the shadows of the dungeons.

So, she often opted to lie in her makeshift bed and stare blankly through the twigs of the wagon. Peasants surrounded it, full of wan-faced families dragging along their worldly possessions: cattle, goats, clothes …

Amongst them, Éowyn noticed a few guards dotted about. They were easily identifiable because the peasants gave them a wide berth, as if they were contagious.

They must be that Marius's guard, she thought hazily to herself, no wonder these people look upon them with such dislike.

On one particularly stormy day, when Éowyn found herself unconsciously watching Lucan being tended to by the giant man who rescued him.

A fresh bandage was being carefully wrapped around his thin arms, with gentle precision. Éowyn knew the knights of the Riddermark were trained in some art of healing, but their bandages upon their own persons and comrades were rough and hurried, because they were always on the move. Yet, this man but was tending to this boy with as much tenderness a Father would his son.

For all this man's ferocity, he possessed a rare, innate gentleness that he could not show often.

And Eowyn felt touched.

Lucan was suddenly pointing. He had spotted her, and Éowyn hastily cast her eyes away. But she felt the man turn.

Slowly, she raised her eyes. They were both looking at her.

"Sorry," she murmured, twisting away, but the tall man had stood and was moving over.

She stared up at him. He smiled slightly.

"This is mine," he said to her, indicating the cloak.

"Thank you," said Éowyn with reservation. "It is a good, warm cloak."

The man's smile grew warmer.

"My name is Dagonet," he said.

"Éowyn."

He continued to smile but Éowyn saw his eyes examine her appearance closely. Her golden hair was spilling out over the blankets and her dirtied, once white dress was just visible beneath the collar of the cloak.

"Where is it you are from, Éowyn?"

The question seemed to ignite a flow of worry in Éowyn's mind.

"Rohan," she said shortly. "From the House of Eorl." She added, as she didn't want to sound too rude.

Dagonet frowned slightly.

"Is Rohan in Britain?"

"No," said Éowyn simply, watching him closely. And as she did, her frostiness seemed to melt somewhat. "My land is far away from these lands, fraught with its own perils. I am sad to see it so. My uncle, King Théoden, had been overthrown in his own mind but has now been saved."

"You are of noble bearing?"

"Yes, I am," she said, frowning slightly at the confused yet worried look which had crept onto Dagonet's face. He crouched down so that he was at her level.

"What are you doing here?" he asked her concernedly. "If Marius had captured a Lady – I – why so far from home?"

Éowyn merely shrugged, which she knew appeared quite stupid but she didn't know the answer any better than Dagonet did. She could not say that she had gone from Meduseld and was awoken and brought unknowingly into a dark, dilapidated cell …

"I do not know," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "I think I was kidnapped but there is little I can say that would prove it. There has been a spy about our halls, leeching information out to the enemy, but even that fails to answer my questions." She glanced up at him. "I don't understand.I feel misguided."

"Misguided?" said Dagonet.

He could not understand what this woman meant. For days he had seen her lie silently in this bed, her face as pale as ice, framed by the long, streaming strands of her soft, yellow hair. Her face, finely lined and aristocratic. He had not dared to approach her often, for he sensed her caution. She was a mystery. And the contrast to the violence embedded on her skin, to her beauty was overwhelming …

"I feel gone astray," she answered. "That is not something I often accustomed with. My hands feel empty yet useless, for I cannot conquer my inner fears and woes with the blade."

"What do you mean, Éowyn?" he asked concernedly. He was suddenly aware that Éowyn had unconsciously grasped his hand.

She gazed at him.

"Warfare … is something which I understand," she said forcefully, clutching his hand tighter. "I have lived with it. It is times that are dark and silent which ail me most."

"They startle all," he said. "The things which I have not wanted still haunt me. But here I am."

A faint line creased Éowyn's forehead.

"Then surely you understand," she said, with a touch of defiance. "Nightmares can quake the boldest of Kings. The life of a warrior is one they serve but to be a slave to your darkest fears …"

She left the question hanging in the air.

Dagonet simply listened and Éowyn felt his pity perceive her. He didn't have to say anything. She seemed to read his mind. How could a maiden as such as her, bear all this burden and sadness? Did he merely think that women's troubles were that of overcooking their husband's food? Or worrying that they were never going to see their dear ones again? So that they would never be protected?

No, she thought. She was more different that she thought in these lands. The thought suddenly made her feel cold and miserable which was the last thing she needed.

"I may heal in body Dagonet," she said quietly, staring boldly ahead of her. "But in mind? I know not." With a brief squeeze, she let go of his hand.

In response, Dagonet merely bent down and pulled his cloak higher to Éowyn's chest, who nestled down, closing her eyes.

"Take some rest, Éowyn," he said gently. "Nightfall is nearly upon us."

He then stood, and shifted over to Lucan.


	4. A Question of Faith

_Sorry for the long wait guys! I've had major writer's block but have decided to cautiously press on with this story. Please give constructive feedback ... I really appreciate it. _

Chapter Four

A Question of Faith

It had not been Dagonet, but Arthur (the commander of the Knights) who amended Éowyn's wrist the next day. Although Éowyn was no stranger to physical pain, the experience had been most unpleasant. Her pride had slipped somewhat when she emitted a loud shriek, which caused Lucan and Fulcinia to turn around in alarm.

But Arthur had done a good job; her wrist was still sore and tender but at least now she could wrest movement in her hand.

The thought of being crippled terrified Éowyn, (as Arthur reminded her); she prized her skill with the blade and it would be a great weakness if she did not have the power to defend herself.

--

The journey continued in laborious procession; a few goats had perished on the way and once they all had to stop, as an anxious mother searched for her overly-adventurous son. Tempers were running high, especially among the knights. One of them, named Lancelot, Éowyn heard loudly complaining to Arthur that they were wasting time. At first, Éowyn was confused. They had all escaped the slavery of the madman's clutches, but her answer was confirmed when she sat with Guinevere at the front of the carriage.

"Saxons?" she said, her brow furrowed. Guinevere nodded, looking unabashed.

"Invaders from the South," said Guinevere unconcernedly. "Merciless, fierce, dreadful brutes."

"How lovely," said Éowyn, resting her had on a wooden stick. "I suppose we cannot say much for their wives."

Guinevere laughed.

"They wish to take over my country," she said forcefully. "But they will meet their match. My father's people are strong and I will fight."

"Women of your country fight, do they?" said Éowyn. Guinevere nodded, staring at Éowyn with a slightly hardened, fierce look as if daring her to challenge her. But Éowyn had seen it before; it was like looking into a mirror. They were both more alike than they deemed.

"I heard you talking to Dagonet last night," she said.

"Oh, Guinevere did have to pry?" said Éowyn. Guinevere had the decency to look faintly ashamed but Éowyn pressed her. "So what did you hear?"

"That we are not so different, Éowyn," she said unabashedly. "You are a woman of war?"

Éowyn sniffed, bringing Dagonet's cloak closer to her shoulders. "Yes," she said curtly. "Women of my country learned how to fight long ago. But even those with swords can still die upon them."

"They can," said Guinevere simply, she looked long and steadily at Éowyn with the same pitying look back in the dungeons. "What is it you want, Éowyn?"

"To go home," replied Éowyn quietly to the floor. "I know I was not brought here by random chance."

"You speak like you are a ghost," said Guinevere, frowning.

"I feel like one," said Éowyn shortly. She gave a sigh and each line in her young face appeared drawn and haggard in the wintry sun. "I need counsel. Someone whom I must speak to. A person who is wise and is regarded with much esteem, perhaps even feared. You are familiar in these lands, Guinevere. Is there such a person?"

Guinevere, who had been listening raptly, nodded in response.

"Yes."

Éowyn's heart rose. Her grey eyes flew up, her heart pounding.

"Really?" she breathed. "Who? Who can I seek?"

"My father, Merlin. He can help. He is wise and respected above our people. He is a dark magician some say but he just my judicious, old father."

A wry smile tilted Guinevere's mouth which Éowyn returned warmly. She opened her own to utter thanks but her companion's attention was stolen by Arthur. He trotted by on his horse and Guinevere watched him closely, smiling wistfully.

- - - - -

Éowyn decided not ask Guinevere of her father till they were properly settled down in the camp allocated for the night. It was located beneath a canopy of lofty, snow-dusted trees. Indeed, Éowyn felt like some wild woman and so _filthy!_Her hair, which was naturally fine, hung in clumpish strands around her face like rat's tails. Her once white dress was put to shame; it was frayed, stained and smelt highly unpleasant. Hardly a garment suited for a noblewoman of Meduseld.

So, it was a sheer relief when Fulcinia asked Éowyn to be washed before bed.

"Of course," said Éowyn, sinking her stark frame into a tub of warm water. The sensation was of the highest bliss!

"A pinch of colour is dawning on your cheeks," smiled Fulcinia, pouring more water on Éowyn's back. "I would hate to someone as such as you die from the cold."

Éowyn chuckled as she squeezed some dirt from her fair hair. "I do not favour it," said she. Fulcinia then left Éowyn to tend to Guinevere in the next tub, and when she returned her gaze fell on Éowyn's grimy dress that was crumpled on the floor. She bent down, picked it up and eyed the stitching with keen interest.

"Such a garment," said Fulcinia approvingly. "Very regal."

"Well, it was my mother's," replied Éowyn, now rubbing her legs.

"She had fine taste," replied Fulcinia, placing the dress down. She then proceeded to a drawer which held phials of perfumes and oils both Éowyn and Guinevere could smooth into their skin.

By the time they had finished, Fulcinia allowed for Éowyn and Guinevere to pick out one of her own fresh, clean dresses. They were of a strange design, thought Éowyn as she tried on a roan toga, but they are elegant too. Finally, after being given a pair of sturdy boots, she and Guinevere (who was wearing a toga of periwinkle blue) descended the carriage.

The sting of the cold evening air swept Éowyn's face and goose pimples erupted over her arms.

"Meet me in a few hours," murmured Guinevere, "my father is close."

Éowyn's heart jolted and gave a nod. As Guinevere turned to slip through the trees, Éowyn grasped her hand.

"Thank you," she said sincerely.

Guinevere smiled briefly and then melted from view, leaving Éowyn alone outside the tents. Two fires had been erected, one surrounded by a gaggle of Marius's men, deep in shifty conversation and the other which was crowded around with a few of the "Knights." She concluded to make a beeline for them when a low mumbling caught her attention.

The source of noise was coming from an empty, dark caravan to her right. Curious, Éowyn edged over and peered inside. A man was sat on his knees, before a small wooden cross. Both his hands clasped together. His mouth was murmuring ceaselessly, his whole state absorbed in the words he spoke …

"_Domine Iesu, dimitte nobis debita nostra, salva nos ab igne inferiori, perduc in caelum omnes animas, praesertim eas …" _

The lilt of the words sounded familiar, identical in pattern and rhythm spoken by those heinous monks.

_A God …. A God that spoke those words … those monks had said they were spokesmen for a God … __a deity that she had defied …_

The man, it turned out to be, was Arthur and this deepened her bewilderment. How could the man responsible of her rescue, utter such words with such passion? The words which now accompanied her thoughts and darkest dreams, along with the poison of Grima …

"How …?"

The word slipped out before Éowyn could prevent it. Immediately Arthur turned his head at the sound of her voice. Feeling hot and embarrassed Éowyn smiled faintly from the door.

"Sorry," she said, putting up a hand. "I was looking for something."

Such a lie and she knew Arthur saw straight through it. Yet he did not appear angry. On the contrary, his swarthy face looked concerned.

"You are here for some other reason, Éowyn," he said quietly. It was not a question and Éowyn felt a surge of respect for him. His thoughtful, hazel eyes observed her gently.

"Yes," admitted Éowyn bashfully, stepping into the caravan. She paused beside a storage of clothes and food, a weak slither of moonlight shining on her face. Finally, she decided to voice her confusion. "What are those words you speak?"

Arthur blinked, surprised at her question.

"A prayer," he said steadily. "To the Lord God."

Éowyn's brow contracted. "The same God those monks told me about?."

"They speak only lies," said Arthur. "They are twisted in their belief. Like their master, Marius, they have lost their way - "

"- Truly!" exclaimed Éowyn, failing to suppress the anger in her voice. "Do you believe in the same God?"

Arthur paused and nodded his head. "I do. Yet neither do many of my Knights believe in Him. They bear the religion of their forefathers. I do not challenge them."

"That is all very well," nodded Éowyn, scraping a distracted hand through her hair. "But what confuses me, is why men in this land place their faith in a being which cannot be seen. Like a leader, an idol which they class higher than their own King."

Arthur slowly stood to his feet and moved over. She watched him closely, her eyes bright in the semi-dim gloom.

"Then may I ask, what is your faith, Éowyn?"

"My own people," she said, her heart beginning to race against her ribs with worry. Did he think her wayward? Ignorant? "My own courage perhaps, a faith that I will return home and when I do, see peace restored - ."

She broke off. She had not intended to delve so personally into her thoughts, they were her sheer weakness!

With a suppressed sigh, she bowed herself out of the caravan and strode into the darkening trees.

Here in the still twilight of the frozen forest, her mind began to rest.

"Oh, Uncle," she said to herself, sitting on a rock. "Why am I here?"


	5. Of Battling Decisions

_A long chapter this time round and again, I cautiously progress with this story. __Please give constructive criticism. I greatly value it. _

Chapter five

Of Battling Decisions

"A question that you need answering."

Éowyn started. She lost her balance upon the rock and stumbled to the leafy ground. There, she saw two pairs of feet standing a few yards away.

The lithe, red cloak draped sinuously upon the woman was unmistakably Guinevere and beside her, stood a tall, thin man robed heavily in furs. This, Éowyn assumed, must be her father.

He was starkly different to what Éowyn imagined; his surprisingly athletic body was painted with a pale, blue sheen and he observed her closely with dark eyes, from his wise-looking face. His jaw was not weak, but not handsome and a straggly raven beard was raised by the thoughtful smile playing on his lips.

"Guinevere," he said, his voice a husky burr. "I must be quick this night with this meeting, for you know of my other business."

Guinevere nodded dutifully. "Yes father. Éowyn," Éowyn's gaze snapped to her at the mention of her name, "this is my father Merlin. Father, this is Éowyn, daughter of the House of Rohan and –"

"- A stranger in these lands," said Merlin, with a touch of weariness. He looked away from his daughter and regarded Éowyn fully with his shrewd, dark eyes. "My daughter is correct in saying you appear unfamiliar. You are stern of glance, aristocratic in demeanour and proud in stance. You are not a Saxon, Briton, Gaul, Roman, Sarmatian nor Woad. Speak to me."

Éowyn frowned uncertainly. "Pardon me, my Lord?"

"Enough," prompted Merlin, "your accent confirms my point. What is your allegiance?"

"To those who saved me," said Éowyn quickly. "To Arthur – not to the Romans."

Merlin lapsed into a brooding silence, combing the strands of his scrubby beard with long fingers. After a while, he said, "And what is your problem, my lady?"

With the calculating and keen look that Merlin was giving her, Éowyn found it hard to gather her thoughts.

"I … I please do not think me mad, my Lord but I have no recollection as to why I should be here. I was not drugged, nor beaten unconscious to be taken to Marius's dungeons … in this land."

Guinevere nodded fervently. "She was fast asleep."

Merlin said nothing for a few moments, moistening to the tip of his lips. "What can you remember last before you came to the dungeons?"

The question stumped Éowyn. It seemed impossible for her mind to stretch to times in the Golden Hall. Only vivid recollections were of her darkest times … hounded and followed by Grima. But, something new had happened. Four travellers from the North entered Edoras, and King Théoden had realised his son had been killed.

_Of course …_

"I buried my cousin," murmured Éowyn to her clasped hands. "That is the last I remember."

She glanced up and stared at the definitive features of Merlin. His expression was hard to read but a trace of interest had gone from his eyes.

"Éowyn," he said, placing a paternal hand on her shoulder. "Many are afraid and respect me because they think, I am a dark magician. A Summoner of demons, able to speak to the Others that have past to the Other World. Thus granting me my title."

Utterly bewildered, Éowyn frowned, exchanging the briefest of confused glances with Guinevere. But her friend simply gave her a look to continue listening.

"So, my Lord may have the power to speak those from my land?" asked Éowyn, wondering if this was what the fellow meant. But to her dismay, the wise man shook his head.

"You misunderstand me," smiled Merlin good-naturedly, gently leading her across the clearing in a slow walk, "spirits and ghosts. Essentially …" he paused, and Éowyn thought she saw a flicker of unease cross his face. "Much are rumours. My knowledge lies in only very good guesswork. I do not lie my mind is clever having won many victor –"

"– But I have known magicians of your calibre!" said Éowyn tersely, moving away from his grasp. "Do you know of Mithrandir? He has lived for almost the time of the world itself in Middle Earth."

This time Merlin and Guinevere exchanged glances of uncertainty. "Is he your god?" she asked. Éowyn fought hard to not make a noise of exasperation.

"No, I know him. He is flesh, bone and as wise –."

"– And where is Middle Earth?" said Merlin in a stronger and louder voice, ignoring her previous words. "The middle of this world? Is that where your country is?"

This time confusion flooded Éowyn. She simply stood there, gaping wordlessly for a few moments before an answer came to light. Yet whatever she said would only confuse the matter even more, and of course this wise _Merlin_ clearly appeared to be not taking her seriously. Mainly, the man stood there, regarding her as if she was a child throwing a tantrum!

"I … I am not sure," she said, determined to keep her voice level. "I could be as far as Rhun." She left her sentence unfinished as she saw Merlin and Guinevere silently talking. When they had finished, Merlin cleared his throat.

"Éowyn," he said in the same, this time annoyingly paternal voice as before. "My only counsel is that you wait. Times are changing in this land. Saxons are a stone's throw away from where we stand and can their being change, even my own destiny. The future is foggy." He chuckled darkly and continued, "I am sorry I cannot give you a straight answer, child but I must thank you for being a pillar of strength to my daughter, even in your darkest times. But all I have to say is wait. Just wait."

_Wait. _

Of all the answers that Éowyn had desired, this was not it. An ugly mixture of anger, disappointment and frustration boiled in her but as she was bred to be a dutiful noblewoman, only a glitter of her displeasure was seen in her eyes. Her lips were pursed, almost bloodless from where she had chewed on them.

"I respect his Lord's words," she said, with a stiff bow and glance at Guinevere, Éowyn turned on her heel and stalked through the trees. She barely knew where she was heading, save the dim orangey glow in the distance that were the erected fires.

"Wait he says? Foolish man," she muttered angrily to herself, as a bramble bush got tangled on her dress. "Nobody understands. Nobody. And what to wait for? Mithrandir to come swooping over the sky on his eagle, declaring: 'Éowyn, I have a message from the Valar, you are actually dead! So now I must leave you here in the land where men are ruled by an autocratic, brainwashing divinity? No honour 'ere lies, no! - AGH! "

Éowyn's furious mutterings where cut short, as a root caught under her foot. She tumbled to the floor, face down and the fresh smell of damp moss filled her nostrils. Spitting out leaves and cursing colourfully in Rohirric, she staggered to her feet, and continued on. Fulcinia's caravan was in sight, growing steadily out of the darkness. There she would find a nice, snug cloak. And perhaps settle down in a bed, warm and secure. Like a child, away from harm.

Yet she was soon pulled out of her train of hazy, idealistic thoughts when she caught sight of a figure by a tree. The man was lying beside it, but he appeared tense and one hand was distractedly fingering his scabbard. As Éowyn drew near, she recognised the tuft of curly hair, and the definitive square jaw. It was the man who had pulled her out of the dungeons.

As Éowyn passed, they exchanged the smallest of glances, each mirroring an expression of annoyance.

_I wonder what is bothering him?_

- - -

It was an ultimate relief to be wrapped up in a cloak. For to Éowyn's displeasure, when she reached Fulcinia's caravan, no such garment was in sight. However, as Éowyn reached a tent, a familiar brown cloak lay abandoned on the floor. Without hesitance, she picked it up and sank beneath it, savouring the warming bliss spreading through her limbs.

"So there's my cloak."

A shadow fell on top of her, as a huge profile blocked the firelight. It was Dagonet. Éowyn stared up at him, inwardly amazed by how tall he was.

"Sorry," she said, removing it, "you may have it back."

Dagonet smiled, shaking his head. He sat down next to her.

"Now, did you think I would ask that, Éowyn?" he said slowly.

"I was being polite," she replied wryly, with the trace of a smile.

Silence descended between them, but both were too absorbed in their own thoughts to speak. Or so she thought. Dagonet shuffled his feet about, his burly arms unconsciously scratching the hilt of his neck and strangely, he would sit still as marble for minutes on end, staring blankly ahead of him. If Éowyn knew anything about men, she knew this one was very uncomfortable. Good grief, did she hate tension. He was making her feel nervous and edgy and that was the least she needed, not when she had been told to sit still and wait like a good, little girl.

After a few more minutes, she spoke up.

"Does something ail you, Dagonet?" she asked him wearily. Fatigue was evident in her tone. The burly man's eyebrows shot up and then curved into ponderous frown.

"I confess, I am nervous for the morrow," he said quietly.

"It would be foolish not too," she replied. "Fight you must but," she paused, deducing quickly whether she should voice her thoughts. Each word was slow and carefully chosen to sound not too offhand. "You fear of losing yourself, and never returning home. Men are not bred like dogs after all."

"Yes, you are quite right," said Dagonet, in the same quiet voice. "I assume you have been brought up with men?"

Éowyn nodded, wistfully remembering the vast plains filled with the pummel of horse hooves, the sea of green cloaks, the glinting of golden helmets beneath the sun.

"Oh yes," she replied. "With all the Knights of my country."

"What kind of men are they?"

"Brave," she said simply, tilting her head. "And like all men, they possess a wonted fondness to their liquor." Dagonet uttered a faint laugh. "Yet, for love of king and country they fight."

"Yes, you are right. I love and fight for Arthur," Dagonet said steadily.

Éowyn suppressed a laugh. "And do you fight for his god?"

"No."

"And nor do I," she said boldly. "No god do I die for. I am willing to give myself up in battle. A Shieldmaiden am I."

Dagonet said nothing. He sighed and stared at his hands, attempting to block the sincerity in Éowyn's voice. Tall and much too high-hearted this young woman sat beside him now, with unwavering nerve. Like before he could not understand her. Her words sounded alien; which sort of land allowed women to do a soldier's work? It was filthy, indifferent and savage. He didn't wish to fight, but he loved Arthur and so fight he will. With no other way of response, he merely said:

"You should rest, Éowyn. There is room beside Lucan in the tent."

She stood, slightly taken aback at the shortness of his words. But she could not imagine sleeping beside Guinevere this night. Her sheer disappointment towards her friend's father was far too much, and Éowyn desired not to be questioned. Finally, an uncomfortable sleep took her, where she dreamt she was lying in a tomb, and confused, worried faces were staring down at her. Her Uncle was lightly tapping her face, and Eomer was shaking her arm. Yet still she did not wake. Then, their faces melted into Grima's, who was licking his lips with repulsive seduction.

"_Do you know what your in is Éowyn? … defiance …" _

She must have woken up; startled in the early hours and by the time she drifted back off, an unwonted tear of sadness had escaped down her cheek.

- - -

"Seize them!"

A sneering, loud voice cracked through her fatigue like a whip. She felt movement beside her, and saw Lucan being dragged out by the tent. Terrified screams and the angry yells of Dagonet were heard.

As if her mind was in fast forward, Éowyn instinctively sprang up. She scrambled out of the tent, seizing a discarded poker and held it aloft. She was met with a vast group of Marius' soldiers surrounding her; Lucan was being held tightly by Marius with a blade to his fragile throat. Dagonet stood a few yards away; unarmed and fearful.

"Éowyn!" he said, alarmed, "what …?"

Éowyn had no time to think, the reason she was not yet attacked was that the soldiers were stunned to see her appear so readied with a weapon. They advanced in on her, smirks tilting their mean faces.

One leapt up behind her but Éowyn swung round and brought the poker down on his head. With a sickening crack, the soldier collapsed to the floor, dead. Blood stained the snow.

"WHORE!" raged Marius, tightening his grip on the dagger, "GET HER!"

Éowyn made to swing the blade again but she was too outnumbered. Desperately looking for an open gap to reach Lucan, she turned to run but the guards caught her deftly. She was then shoved roughly into Marius's tight grasp. It was agony; his unnaturally long nails dug into her shoulder like a claw.

"I have them both," he taunted over to Dagonet. "Oh dear, what is a Knight to do?"

No-one had time to move as an arrow whistled through the air, striking Marius squarely in the chest. Guinevere had arrived, armed superbly with a large bow. With a grunt, her target flopped to the floor. Lucan immediately fled to Dagonet, who scooped up a mighty sword and raised it into the air with impressive agility. Arthur, Lancelot and Bors soon brought up the rear behind Guinevere.

Finally, Arthur ended the fight with a simple deal of "you either help or you die," and walked away, preparing to move out. Guinevere didn't follow; instead she strode over to Éowyn. Her pale face was startled, as she eyed the bruise on Éowyn's neck.

"Are you hurt?"

Éowyn shook her head. "No," she seethed, wincing at the swelling welt on her neck. "But that man had the longest nails! Congratulations for killing him."

Guinevere smiled grimly.

"It was his time. And you slewed this fellow?"

She indicated the corpse of Marius's soldier.

"Yes. He worked well as tester to see if my wrist was working."

Guinevere laughed but she broke off quickly. Her face turned serious.

"Éowyn, I apologise if my father did not - ."

"– forget it," said Éowyn quickly, not wanting to broach the subject. "Let's just reach this Hadrian's Wall ... safely."

Tactful as ever, Guinevere nodded and both women headed toward the packing caravans.

- - - - - - - -

The day was as cold as yesterday. Gelid breezes tossed unadorned, golden tresses around Éowyn's face as the snow crunched beneath her mean sandals, choosing not to be in the confinement of the caravan. All the Knights cantered around her upon their horses. Often, banter was exchanged but when a stocky, bald-headed Knight rode frantically up to Arthur, she knew something was wrong.

She rushed up to him, clutching her woollen, mauve shawl that Fulcinia had leant her when the Knight had gone.

"Arthur," she said alertly, gazing up at him upon his gallant horse. "What has happened?"

The commander observed her for a few moments with scrutinizing green eyes. Slowly, he nodded.

"Tristan has discovered a frozen lake is ahead, blocking our passage."

"And you - ?"

"– and we have but little choice to cross it."

Éowyn gave a small nod of acceptance and said no more till they reached the obstacle in question. Indeed, it blocked their way ahead. It was a vast, frozen sheet of icy risk, coarsely helmed in the basin of steeping, snow-capped mountains which flanked the horizon like ominous sentinels.

"There is no other way," Éowyn heard Arthur from her position by the caravan. She and Guinevere exchanged grave looks. Even, Lucan looked as anxious as they. Worry was etched on Arthur's face and finally, he voiced his bleak decision. "Get the people out of the caravans and to spread out across the lake."

Just as Éowyn descended the caravan with Guinevere, the pounding of distant drums was heard in the distance. The Saxons. They were finally here. The sound of their war instruments seemed to beat in sync with Éowyn's heart; fear and adrenaline was pumping swiftly through her as she moved carefully across the icy expanse, with Lucan holding tightly to her arm. By the time they had reached the opposite bank, Éowyn saw that one obvious and difficult decision had to be made.

"Knights …" he said, acknowledging them, gauging their faces for their reactions. Each wore an expression of grim determination, some unconsciously fingering their weapons, as if almost restless.

"I'm tired running," said a brown-haired, expressional-eyed young man.

The stocky knight, snorted. "And these Saxons are so close behind my arse is hurtin'."

The curly-haired knight that was Éowyn's rescuer nodded. "Be a pleasure to put an end to this racket ... and finally get a look at the bastards."

Éowyn, who had been watching the scene closely, felt movement beside her. Dagonet stood over beside Arthur, clutching his giant axe retrieved from the caravan.

"Hear. Now," he said firmly. Such few words sealed the top of the fateful verdict.

Soon, Arthur gave a quick briefing of commands, and weapons were tossed to each of the Knights. Guinevere shot Éowyn a sharp, searching look.

"Are you - ?" she said.

Éowyn didn't answer yet right on cue, a youth from Marius' village exclaimed to Arthur, "but you're seven against - ?"

"Eight."

Guinevere had stepped forth, a fierce look blazing in her eyes. Arthur's stoic face flickered for a moment, and then his gaze rested on Éowyn.

"I hear it was you who killed one of Marius' soldiers," he said to her.

Slightly taken aback, Éowyn nodded but her eyes flew past Arthur's face when Dagonet emerged, preparing his armour and fitting his thick brown cloak with a bronze, disc-shaped fastening.

He strode purposefully to Eowyn, and stood close beside her.

"If you are you going to fight, I suggest you make your decision quickly."

His voice was a clear murmur in her ear.

"It was made before we reached here," Eowyn replied quietly. She stood back and saw an odd war of pity and confusion war across his features.

"My reasons are beyond your understanding, Dagonet," she said.

But the large Knight remained silent. Without another word, he left her. Eowyn watched him slip through the crowds with defiant features, but an odd lump had formed in her throat.

_I'm not your woman ... I'm not your charge ... _

As the villagers began to move, and the Knights finalising their weapons, Eowyn approached Arthur who was handing out the last supplies of weapons. He paused in stretching a bowstring, when the snow crunched beneath Eowyn's feet behind him.

"I fight," she said to his back.

He turned, acknowledging her being there so boldly in the snow. He knew there was no use in challenging her.

"Get yourself a bow, Éowyn."


End file.
